


This Woman's Work

by areyoureddiekids



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: F/M, I mean, Pregnancy, Smut, Young Michael, alpha-langdon, canon divergence bc I have no clue how ahs will end but fuck it, follow my tumblr, look at him, old michael, praise satan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-10 02:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16461650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoureddiekids/pseuds/areyoureddiekids
Summary: You had both been young. He, aware of his destiny and you, so entirely unaware of yours.He saw you, and you saw him.That was that, apparently.-Your life with Michael, in oneshots and memories.





	1. Birth

**Author's Note:**

> my first michael one-shot, which i have also posted to my tumblr (alpha-langdon). follow and request some stuff!

The blood is wet between your thighs.

It is the only thing you recognise, or can even think about, as you tiredly allow yourself to fall toward the dark wood floor of Outpost Three. You knew it would hurt - it was something he had warned you of…but this…this was pure pain. It felt like a rolling wave, coming and going so quickly you can’t decipher when one contraction starts and the other ends.   
-  
You had been a no one. Never a no one in your own eyes (no, you prided yourself on your power as a woman, and your sharp tongue), but to someone like him…you should have been nothing. And yet…and yet you had caught his eye; a seemingly entirely normal human being who had grown up far too close to the odd woman on your street. The Devil Lady. Miss Mead.

You had both been young. He, aware of his destiny and you, so entirely unaware of yours.

He saw you, and you saw him.

That was that, apparently.  
-  
You muffle a yell, your eyes watering and your mouth bursting for you to fucking scream. The terror of what was happening was almost shadowed by the pain. You had not planned for this baby to end up inside of you…fuck no. You had been so constantly dubious of ever having children, even when you were a child yourself. You had grown up in a world of powerful women rising to high ranks around you and terrible men with red ties and bad hair sneering when they did so.

You had wanted to be like those powerful women. 

Not that such a thing could not happen for powerful women, but you…you never thought you could be a maternal figure to someone else. You never thought a lot of things. You never believed in God or the Devil. You never believed in Ghosts, or Witches, or the fight between Good and Evil.

You, in the simplest terms, had been a fucking idiot.

You met him. He, after so long of hiding who he truly was, behind his odd mannerisms, his beautiful blue eyes, his undeniable beauty, his need to have you so close, his…is complete inhuman nature.  
-  
You never thought you would be blinded by love. You thought that was for idiots who fell in love with serial killers and stood by whilst they did fucked up, terrible things.You never though you would be one of those idiots - you, who graduated high school wonderfully, who once wanted to be a fucking Doctor, who read and said cutting words and thought they had such a solid grasp on reality.

And yet, there was another you. The you after him. The you who stumbled into his odd life, who did not speak for three days after finding out just what he was, who won the affection of his terrifying care-giver, who cried when he left and screamed in anger when he came back, who dropped everything to follow him into the flames once he told you his plan, who cried with him at the death of those he loved, who listened to his woes and his rage, who, finally, stood by him, your hand in his and your head tilted back, to watch the world when it went up in flames. 

He had been the one to sneer at men as they passed you in the streets. You had been the one to tilt your head and figure out there was something odd about this boy who, when those who wronged you found him, would make them bleed and break bones. He had been the one to nod in understanding when, after the murder of your mother (a gun, a car, oh how that had broken your heart), you announced that humanity was what was wrong with the world.  
-  
‘He will be with us soon. You need to get up off of there, (Y/N), now,’ Mead soothes. You can hear the odd twinge of something in her voice; a strain of stress that the duplicate of the long burnt woman would not normally let slip. You can feel the blood wetting between your legs as you press your back against the wall, your legs falling open without much thought.

Your hand flattens against your swollen belly, and you think, come on. Fight. I can’t lose you.

You stumble as Mead heaves you to your feet, a whine pouring from your mouth and your cheeks flooding with more tears and, oh God, it hurt so fucking much. Why does it hurt this much? Why is there so much blood? 

It is as Miss Mead, with her stern stare as she orders you to move onto the bed and flattens her warm, rough palms over your knees…it is only then that you feel him by your side.

You turn, your breath coming in short pants, so entirely uncaring about Mead practically rifling through your private area. With your knees spread and your back against the headboard, you loll your head to one side and your nose brushes against his.

Against Michael’s.

’(Y/N),’ he stares, his pale eyes flitting down to see what Mead is doing, before he looks back to you. You stare back at him, your knees weak and your cheeks wet and your blood pumping. He crouches low beside the bed, jaw set and hair curling around his face, before he mutters. ‘I left for only an hour, for the first time in weeks. Your child insists on being just as awkward as you, apparently-’

You hiss and he moves, and you know his words had only been a way to drag you away from whatever Mead was doing. You can feel her pushing and prodding, and the life inside of you shifting, and the pain comes again…stronger this time-

Michael presses his forehead to the side of your head, and you only become half-aware of his hand curling into your fist as he mutters things to you, low and in another language entirely. 

You hear Mead speaking as you grit your teeth through the pain. ‘It is likely premature separation of the placenta from the-’

‘And?’ Michael bites the word out, and your head spins as you come down from your latest contraction. They were getting close together; far too close. ‘The blood-’

‘Is normal. She needs to push’.

She moves, and you watch. Whilst Mead shuffles to light more candles and grab more towels (and, fuck, you were two weeks early, this wasn’t supposed to be happening yet), you are turning to Michael and gripping his hand with an aching grasp in your own.

‘The baby over me,’ you bite out, aware of your hair sticking to your cheeks and the blood staining your knees. ‘You promise me, Michael-’

He stares, unwavering and beautiful, and replies with a crinkle of his brow, ‘I will do no such thing. I will bring you back to me. You know this’.

You do. You nod, shaky and quick, and quickly fall into another cry as a contraction wracks your body. 'Jesus fucking Christ!’ Michael’s hands are touching your shoulders and your forehead. He is everywhere; a whisper away from your hair, his warm hands a strong support.  
-  
He had wanted the baby. He had pressed his hands to your hips as you grew used to life in the Outpost, the guilt still curling against you. He had brought you here, once he had known it was safe for you. Whilst Michael had grown into the powerful man he was today, you had been right beside him, hidden and unknown. 

It had been three months in, as you stood naked and aching from his rough hands, that he had pressed a hand to the curve of your stomach, and murmured in that way of his, ‘The night you agree to take carry my child, I will fuck you so slowly that you will be begging for my seed’. You had glared at him, more than used to his blush-worthy words, to which he had bitten your shoulder and added, ‘I want nothing more than to see you round with my-’

It had not taken much more convincing.   
-  
The pain seems to never end.

You fall in and out of understanding what is happening around you. The pain is near constant; a never ending wave of stretching and pulling and pummelling happening inside of you. Mead’s voice is what drags you away from gritting your teeth, as she orders you to sit forward and allow Michael to slide himself behind you. 

You do so. You had spoken about this before, when Michael had told you just how gruelling the labour might be. His birth mother, he had told you, had died whilst labouring his dead brother. 

It was the first time you had seen him look truly worried in a long, long time. It reminded you of the days before he took on the responsibility of ending the fucking world. 

Michael pushes himself behind you, clad only in a loose white shirt and dark trousers. His bare feet pressing against your calves, and you see the red beginning to stain him. You feel a stretching and a pushing, and you know that it is almost time. With your back to his back, you allow yourself just one moment to lean back into him, your eyes squeezed shut and you breath coming in quick gasps. Michael takes you, his free hand coming to rest upon your sweaty forehead as he whispers into your ear, ‘You will do this. You were made to be by my side, and my Father wills this child to be born, and for you to mother it. You are strong’.

You nod.

You can fucking do this.

‘Push,’ Mead orders, now standing in front of your spread legs with her bloody hands ready and her eyes glinting in the firelight up at you. ‘Now, (Y/N)’. 

And you push.  
-  
The first time the child moves, you are terrified. So terrified that you drop your water on the way into bed. Michael hardly jumps, an annoying characteristic of his, but the sharp way he looks at you tells you all you need to know.

When your hand lays flat against your stomach and you stare at him with a perplexed expression, he understands quickly. Long legs draw him upwards from where he sat on the edge of the bed, and long fingers press just underneath yours once he reaches you.

He stiffens and you watch him, so enamoured with seeing him discover something new with you for once. He is like a child, so suddenly, his blue eyes jumping to yours and a little smile tugging at the side of his mouth. He tilts his head, and murmurs, ‘I can hear the heartbeat. Strong. Are you sure you would not like to know the gender?’

He knew. Of course he knew. You, on the other hand, were quite enjoying how utterly frustrated he seemed at not being able to share the news with you.

You shake your head. ‘No. Don’t look at me like that. I’m carrying the Antichrist 2.0 - you can do me this one favour, Michael’.

Did you ever think you would be a character in a Biblical tale? No. The answer is no.   
-  
You scream and Michael is speaking to you, but you can only push and push and push, until you can’t anymore. You suck in a deep breath, and the lower half of your body feels as if it doesn’t even belong to you anymore. You gasp and lean back into Michael, your body telling you to keep going.. 

You know it is only one more push. Something, maybe the connection of mother and baby, is telling you this. Just one more time. One more time and you can have them. One more time and you will have given this sad, desolate world another life. One more time, and maybe you can begin to make up for your sins with the life you will love and care for.

Push.

You do.

The candles flicker around you, and you strain as you lean back, pushing with all of your might as sound disappears, the roaring of blood pumping through you fades, and with one final lunge, Michael bows his head over your shoulder and presses a hand against your shifting belly as he murmurs something low. 

You feel something release.

You push and push and push, until it feels like you might break in half. You push and feel Michael’s hand pushing your sweat-sodden hair away from your face. You push and see Mead between your knees, looking up and down and mouthing things to you, a grin beginning to splay across her features. You push until you cannot anymore; until Michael is pressing a kiss to your shoulder and whispers, ‘Well done, that’s enough’.

And she cries.

And it’s beautiful.

You want to lean back and never get up again, but you continue to prop myself up against Michael, your elbows on his knees, the both of you watching as Mead shuffles with a blanket and draws a squirming mess of blood and pink skin away from you. The woman, with her heavy set face and serious eyes, smiles and rounds the bed, until the soft fabric is pressed against your chest, and you see her. She is still attached to you, the cord linking you and your baby.

And you are still not quite sure how you know it is a her, you had not seen, but somehow you know.

'Oh,’ you say, cradling her to your chest. Your other hands touches her cheeks; her soft, lovely little cheeks. Another hand joins yours, pale and long-fingered, and Michael touches the forehead of his daughter with a soft hum against your ear.

'A girl,’ he clarifies, deep and soft. ‘You did beautifully,’ he tells me, and can only manage an odd choked sound. ‘Look at her. Look at what we made’.

Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Soft skin. Tiny fingernails.

You nod. ‘Ours’.

‘Ours,’ he agrees.


	2. Prequel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! i am uploading these from my tumblr, where i've done a few more imagines for this series. they're just random oneshots, but enjoy!

You had found him in the woods.

Your lives had been intertwined since he had come from seemingly nowhere; the Langdon boy who was odd and quiet and stared too much. It had grown since then. You learn of him and he dragged you toward him; never intent on having anyone but you.

You fought, but eventually you know. You understand. He was the Antichrist, and somehow, without you knowledge, you had been made for him. You knew him. The years would go by, and he would disappear and reappear and you would think he was dead and gone (and then Miss Mead had told you where he was, and you had found him in that treeline near that odd school for people like him, and you had hissed and pushed him away from you because he had left you). 

Eventually, you left your old life behind (with parents dead and gone), and you had become one with him.

Michael. 

You were young, but not stupid. You understood what he was. What he did. The next time he disappears, it is after he had left you to find what the Witches had done. He had sworn and hissed and told you that they were planning something.

You felt it, hours later.

The pain.

You had blanched, your fingers hovering over you keyboard in the Office at Mead’s house (she had taken you in with sharp eyes and a knowledge that Michael needed you, and that you had nowhere else to go). The pain tore through you; a grief that had you stumbling from the wheeled chair and swearing into the quiet house.

It took you days to find him. To find the answers. Mead never came home with information on what was happening with the school and the Witches. Eventually, with your back pressed against a corner shop, your dark hair a mess around your face and your fingers clenching a cigarette, you spoke to Satan.

‘Where is he?’ you had whispered into the night, anxious and worried and, fuck, how did you get here? Where had your life gone so out of order?

When you met him, you know.

You feel something sharp press against your back, like sharp hands and thick nails, and suddenly you know where Michael is. You see his pain. You see his bloodshot blue eyes and you reach and reach, your fingers curling toward him as if he is right before you-

He narrows his crazed gaze and snaps, ‘You’re not real!’

You rush back to yourself, your hand dropping and your cigarette falling to the ground, and suddenly you’re back by that busy road with the shop behind you and a gang of youths kicking a can across the street from you.

You know where he is.

Pushing aside the shock and oddness of what had just happened (you had seen the things Michael could do, but never had you experienced something yourself), you push yourself into the night, knowing where he is.

You find him in the woods.

He curls himself into you and weeps, and you know Miss Mead is dead. You curl your fingers around his jaw, and he looks at you, crouched and covered in dirt, and his jaw wobbles as you tell him it’s going to be okay, you were both going to figure this out.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he tells you, so quietly infuriated. ‘Why won’t he tell me?’

You press a kiss to his cheek, and he leans into you. ‘He brought me to you - he hasn’t abandoned you, Michael’.

You move, the two of you. You move through streets and alleyways, homeless and broke and in desperate need of someone to guide you. You want to help him, you do, but you have no fucking idea what his purpose is. Mead…she knew everything.

You feel like you’re failing him.

You find the Church, and you sit at the back with Michael, his form slouched and his cheeks wet, and you watch these idiots talk of stupid fucking things. You want to snort at them, but hold it in.

‘Idiots,’ you mutter.

Michael hums in agreement. 

You meet the woman, and she takes the two of you back to hers, and it is there that she learns who and what Michael is. You stand awkwardly in her house whilst she praises Michael, until Michael looks at you and sees you looking at him (because you understand that, from this moment, everything is going to change) and he opens his long fingered hand.

You pause, knowing what this means. He is letting the woman know who you are, and where you stand with him.

And so, you take his hand.

You are his, and he is yours.

And the woman…she looks at you like you’re the Queen of fucking Hell.

Michael stands in the bedroom that the woman had given you for your short stay with her, his back to the door and his chest heaving. You had met the Church; had glared and stuck by his side as grubby, greedy hands tried to touch him. 

They make you ill, somehow, and you know it’s hypercritical. They worshipped him for being the son of the Devil, whereas you worshipped him for being him. For being Michael.

You stand in the middle of the room, eyeing his glowing form with a smile tugging at your lips. He had found his path. He had been given hope of seeing Mead again. ‘You’re happy,’ you point out, cocking a brow and eyeing him. 

His eyes, his fucking beautiful eyes, flit to you, and you wonder how he is real. He is beautiful. Soft and beautiful and you wonder how he can do such terrible things. You wonder, yourself, how you can stand by and continue to love him.

You stopped bothering to judge yourself a long time ago.

He cocks his head and smiles just slightly, and you once again look at him, thinking of those hands trying to touch him, of the red haired woman and her enlarged pupils when she had asked to touch what was yours.

‘Jealousy is not becoming, (Y/N). You are better than that,’ he smirks, eyes glinting, and you hate the fucking fact he can you read you like a book - literally. You scoff, cutting yourself off when he moves quickly and draws himself to you, all lean form and hands curling around your lower back. His nose touches yours, and you swallow tightly, so overcome with him.

After all these years, he could still make you feel like that idiot sixteen year old who met him in the street. The boy who stared too hard at you and pulled on the hem of his shirt. The beautiful boy with the curls of blonde hair and the blood staining the sleeve of his shirt.

You think you might have fallen in love with him then and there.

You wrinkle your nose and nudge it against his, your feet curling onto tiptoes. ‘It’s not you I doubt, it’s them. They look at you like you’re meat, Michael’. He cocks a brow and you lick your lips. ‘You’re mine, Michael’. You have never uttered the words before, but you need him to know. Everything is changing in a tornado like fashion, and you need him to know-

He tilts his head, eyes downcast to you and lips separating just slightly. His fingers move, and you feel them cast across your stomach as he continues to look at you, his nose just brushing yours. ‘Is that so?’

You move, your own hand flying up to curl around the back of his neck as you draw yourself higher, your mouth just a breath of a touch from his. You press yourself to him, and his wandering hand grabs you by the waist. ‘Yes,’ you reply simply, before your lips crash against his.

Michael tastes like smoke. You’ve always though so.

He makes quick work of sliding his knee between your legs and pushing roughly; so roughly that you gasp into his mouth and dig your fingers into his soft hair and, fuck, this man…this fucking man.

‘And you,’ he hums, pulling away to nip at your jaw. ‘Are fucking mine’. His lips move lower, finding your neck and sucking there just slightly. He always did so; always wanting to mark you, ever since he first learnt what giving a hickey even entailed. ‘Those people are nothing. Nothing’.

You gasp when he shifts his leg again, his face lowered to yours as he watches you. You move backwards without even thinking, until Michael is shoving you onto the bed and standing above you, dark and beautiful and pupils blown to fucking black. He got like this when he was excited. Possessive and rough and wanting to fuck you into the ground. 

You never complained. 

You feel every movement as he drags down your jeans and touches your bare legs, his fingertips tapping against the curve of your thighs and the lining of your underwear. You watch, elbows holding you up, breathe heavily as he shrugs off his jacket and, quite suddenly, parts your legs with rough hands on your knees.

He was like a child, sometimes. Always eager.

He presses two fingers to the already moistening soft fabric of your underwear, his dark gaze and heavy smirk only directed at you. You swallow tightly, so fucking ready and so fucking tired of being without him. 

It doesn’t take him long to discard of your underwear and kneel before you (oh yes, the Antichrist kneels for you an only you), his mouth eager and hot against you. You whimper and curl your fingers into his hair, only half aware of the hot whispers against your cunt. 

Michael liked the talk when he fucked.

You don’t care if the woman can hear you. You don’t care if the two Satanists she had invited for dinner hear you. You want them to know. You need them to know. To know that Michael was yours and you were his, and no one would have him like you had him.

He grabs at your thighs, the noises coming from his mouth downright fucking sinful. Michael pulls you closer to him, his teeth nipping and his tongue swirling, and he mutters, ‘I could eat your cunt for fucking hours’.

That does it.

You come with him ordering you to look at him, his dark, sharp eyes flicked upward to you, and his strong hands holding you thighs apart as he buries his mouth against you. His fingers dig painful white dots into your flushed skin, and you lazily drag him up lightly by his hair, kissing your wetness form his mouth.

With him hovering above you, his gaze soft and his cheeks flushed (and, God or Satan or what fucking ever, you loved him), you cradle his cheeks and tell him, ‘I want you inside of me, Michael’.

He wastes no time in complying.


	3. Spawn

It is fourteen weeks into living at the Outpost that you first feel nauseous. 

You’re not fond of the feeling. Not even slightly. It doesn’t exactly help that your mood, thanks to the little to do in the place, had been sour the past few days. You had only Michael and Miss Mead, the only people you’d had for years, and you suppose it is better than the lonely places Michael had kept you during and after the bombs dropped.

You had fought him, of course. That was only your nature. He had been forced to take you on his outings so many times that you lost count, simply because you would seethe at him until he would, eyes rolling and jaw jumping, do so. You didn’t enjoy them (enjoy seeing the world withered and grey), but it was a change from entertaining yourself with books and whatever internet access was available to you.

You had changed after the bombs. You found yourself far more cattier and deadpan. You think, without a doubt, that it is Michael’s influence. 

But still, the Outpost offered very little to do, and though it did not frighten you to know what had transpired here (and you remember the days when you had stood on the treeline of the old School to see Michael, with his curly hair and wide eyes), it made your skin crawl just slightly.

You are moving around the library when the nausea strikes. Your hands are balanced on a dusty shelf, as you sort through the tomes and books to find the ones that you particularly would like to read and take to your study. Michael had, upon finally bringing you to the Outpost (after insisting it would not be for long, now that those damn Witches were finally gone), that you should have your own work space, separate from his. Somewhere to write and read and do the things you loved.

You are half-thinking about the boring, pretentious books littered around the fire-lit room when your stomach drops. You swallow, your mouth watering, before you scatter down from the ladder and hurl in the only place that you can think to.

The fire.

The smell of burning vomit, for one thing, is pretty fucking disgusting. 

You wipe your mouth and dart for the nearest washroom, your bare, socked feet sliding along the flooring as you do so. You were not like Michael, who preferred gallant and tight clothing. No, as long as there was no one to impress, you much preferred jeans and shirts and thick woollen socks.

You brush you teeth and glare at the mirror, before tittering at your reflection and pulling at your dark hair. 

It is then that you realise you are pregnant.

It isn’t a very poignant moment. You are there, staring at your slightly pale reflection, when you blink very hard and curl your hands around the counter in the bathroom, you mouth falling open just a little bit.

You were late. Your boobs hurt. You were nauseous. You were a moody, too hot mess.

You were, quite obviously, pregnant.

‘Well,’ you pop out, blinking very hard at the mirror, before you nod and turn on your heel and march out of the bathroom. You’re not sure what to feel, really. Terrified, for one. Hysterical, secondly. And thirdly…excited. Excited to tell Michael. Excited to stump him for fucking once.

You so loved breaking that cool as ice exterior. 

He is already waiting when you exit the bathroom, his back pressed against the railing of the stairs and his arms crossed loosely over his chest. You sometimes think about just how much he has changed over the years, but you wonder if maybe he thinks the same about you. You are, without a doubt, not the same kids who met on a hot summer day in L.A. 

You blink, open your mouth, pause for a moment, before blurting out, ‘I thought you stopped stalking me after I finally gave in and kissed you all those years ago’.

He tilts his head and rolls his eyes just slightly, and you know you’ve made a grave mistake. You chat utter shit when you are nervous and Michael, the Biblical fucking being that he was, knew when you were nervous. His hair lolls over his shoulders, which are clad in a dark, button up shirt, and he licks his lips, eyes trained on you. ‘I would not call it stalking, (Y/N)-’

You scoff. ‘Well, that’s one of us, darling’. You smile, take a step forward, and stroke your thumb over his smooth cheekbone. He allows you to do so, his form leaning in just slightly to the touch as he continues to bestow you with that hard and sharp gaze. ‘Is there any particular reason you are loitering outside of the bathroom like a gas station creep?’

He frowns and you cock a brow, wondering if you should just tell him now. Realistically, you wanted to be sure, but you somehow just knew. You knew you were pregnant. 

With a baby.

Which was not terrifying at all. 

He is opening his mouth, his tongue sliding along the edge of his teeth. You drop your hand at the moment he begins to say, ‘I…felt something-’

He stalls, and his hand flies to grab your dropping one so quickly that you actually jump. You are about to swear and thump him lightly on the arm, but you have no time to. No, because when Michael looks at you like you are the sun and he is a dying rose, you know that he knows.

He dips into you, his long fingers curling around you wrist lightly. His hair brushes your cheeks, and his free hand lingers just before you. ‘I-’ He cuts himself off, and you relish in his curious expression. ‘I feel it now. You-’

‘Bun in the oven,’ you blurt out nervously.

Michael stops, his expression quite deadpan. After a few seconds pause, he drawls, ‘Is that really how you want to tell me that you are pregnant with my child, my dear?’

You would laugh, were the situation not so entirely serious.

You muster a wobbly smile and shrug slightly, your fingers drawing to hold at the sleeve of his shirt. He watches you, and you see the light in his eyes and the twitch of his mouth. ‘You can feel it?’ you inquire. ‘I just…I just realised myself-’

Michael nods, drawing himself even closer to you, his hand leaving you wrist to instead move lower, where your shirt covered your still flat stomach. You take in a deep breath, your nerves wandering and your mouth dry. ‘I felt it,’ Michael hums, beautiful eyes flickering down for just a moment. ‘I feel it’.

‘Oh’. You laugh lightly, befuddled and shocked, and smile so wide that you feel your mouth might split. You feel, so suddenly, quite euphoric. Michael’s shoulders relax just slightly upon your smile, and he offers his own pleased and knowing one. His fingers flatten against your abdomen, and his bows his head to yours.

‘Strong,’ he murmurs, and you wish you could feel exactly what he was feeling right now. You had loved and known Michael for so, so long, but even you or Miss Mead could not decipher exactly what he was feeling. ‘Already so like their mother’. He looks back up at you, and you beam.

‘No doubt brilliant,’ you reply, covering his hand with your own. ‘Like their father’. You don’t care if it’s fucking corny. You don’t care if you want to cry. You only care about the look on Michael’s face, and you feel like you have given him the greatest present ever. You only understand now just how much he had wanted this. 

He bows his forehead to yours, eyes locked on your own. ‘It will be difficult,’ he tells you, brow furrowed and jaw tight. ‘As my mothers was. A child of mine…it will tire you, test you-’

‘The Antichrists spawn is going to be a handful?’ you inquire sarcastically. ‘No shit, darling’.

He ignores your usual quip, opting to instead draw his hand son either side of your face and kiss your forehead and nose with precision and his usual slow grace. You allow him to do this, a soft smile tugging at your mouth as he pulls away and stares at you, eyes bright and mouth settled calmly. 

‘You are magnificent,’ he tells you.

‘I know,’ you reply, to which he offers a wider, closed mouth smile, his brow twitching, and his fingers stretch and pull over the fabric of your shirt, his gaze completely enamoured with the sight of your very flat tummy. ‘Miss Mead is going to have a stroke. I hope you’re aware of that’.

‘Very much so, my dear’.


	4. Boy

You had known of the Mead woman since you were a kid.

She always wore black and red and dark, staining lipstick that never seemed to move. She was pale and papery, and held the form of someone you would think would be a good mom. Your mom had that look about her, too. 

Your mother was beautiful and plump and had hair the colour of wheat. 

Miss Mead, the scary woman who lived down the street, was not like that. She was dark and black and white and whenever you saw her in the supermarket (where she would always buy raw, red meat), your mother would curl her hand around your shoulder and pull you close to her. 

You never understood why, until you were old enough to do so.

The people at your High School whispered of cults and Satan, and the sacrifices that she would do in her back garden with goats and stray cats. The older you got, the more you understood. Miss Mead was weird. Downright fucking weird, and it was none of your damn business. 

It was two weeks before The Day that you started to notice her curtains twitching.

It was nothing too out of the ordinary; a simple quick yank of her dark curtains in her small house whenever you walked past it on your way back from school. You wondered what the fuck the woman was doing, and you told your friends this with quick texts and cautious stares. Mead had kept to herself for so long, what was she doing looking out of her window at you, the sixteen year old from the local High School.

Hell, you were on track to be a fucking Cheerleader. Even you were aware that you were right up there with the kind of people Satanists abhorred. You were, really, quite the opposite of the cliche, though. You were friends with the girls who were on the cheer team and, shit, you needed something on your damn College Applications. 

You stop taking notice of the curtains, until one day, the day before The Day, you see a mop of curly blonde hair and pale cheeks before the curtain is yanked shut, and you realise that it isn’t Miss Mead looking at you at all.

You’re in the Supermarket, picking up some pasta and chicken for dinner, because your mother was working late, and it is the first time you see him.

You’re quite used to seeing Miss Mead out and about, and years of your mother dragging you to her side had trained you to stay away from the woman. Today, though, it is the first time you have seen her with someone. 

You pause, halfway down the tinned foods aisle, and cast your gaze just quickly to the tall and lanky person pushing the trolley for the woman. Both of their backs were to you, but something…shit, something hard and fast seems to slam you in the chest, and you look away from the darkly dressed boy and rub and your reddening cheeks.

You wonder what the fuck that was all about.

You grab your food and get out of there before you can see this mystery boy. You do, though, notice that on top of his head had been a mop of curly blonde hair.

It is a Wednesday when you see his face. 

You are walking home from school, the same as usual, when you hear a car door slam as you walk past the Mead residence. The woman seemed to work like clockwork, and it is why you are only mildly surprised to see her shuffling around the side of her car, a large bag in her hands.

You wonder if, for the first time in two weeks, you will not see a curtain twitch. It should trouble you more, really, to know that the blonde boy seemed to know when you were walking home from school. 

You decided to ignore it.

It his hard to do so as you round the corner of her house some more, your eyes cast secretly over to where you see her approaching her front door, her keys jangling, and calling to someone.

‘Michael,’ she says.

Michael.

And you see him.

He is standing with his back to the car and his bare arms hanging loosely at his sides, his blue (blue, blue, blue) gaze already latched onto you as you round the corner. You heart stutters and drops, and you think that he looks as if he had been expecting you to walk past this house, at this exact time. 

You almost stop walking. You almost trip and fall flat on your face.

He is, in but one word, beautiful. Wide-eyed and sharp boned, all lanky form and long legs and hair that dips around his angular face. No one, not even the hottest guys at your school, could compare to how this mystery boy made your stomach twist and squirm upon that one, simple look.

You step stutters for just a moment, and in that moment the boy (Michael) tilts his head and offers you but one, tiny, simple smile.

He looks at you as if he knows you, and years from now you will be well versed on the story of how he had seen you for the first time walking past his house, and he known then and there that his Father had made you for him.

Years from now, you would snappily reply, ‘I was not made for you, Michael. I was made to be with you’.

You smile but once back, a spasm and an awkward thing, and you hurry to your and try for a good hour to stop the shaking of your hands.

You are walking to school the next time you see him.

He is, without a doubt, waiting for you this time.

He stands on the sidewalk, dressed in a pale blue shirt and dark blue jeans. You pause for just a moment, because there is no way you can pass him without acknowledging him somehow, this boy who had plagued your thoughts for weeks now. 

Your heart hammers, and you wonder why.

He turns when you approach him, his shoulders straightening and his head tilting, and you wonder why you are walking toward him like you know him. You wonder why his eyes, eyes that are so blue in the orange morning sun that you pool with warmth, watch you as you approach him.

He is odd, this boy. That much you know. 

You stop before him, your fingers latched onto the strap of your bag, and you blink just once before saying, ‘Hi’.

He stares and stares and pulls at the hem of his shirt, and it is only then that you notice the slight smudge of blood along the sleeve of his pale shirt. You blink at it, before your gaze flutters back to his own. You chest tightens and you palms sweat. 

Beautiful. How could one person look like that? It wasn’t fucking fair. 

He, after a few seconds of cerulean eyes darting over your face, pulls his lips into a small smile and replies, ‘Hello’.

You want to ask him his name, even though you know it. You want to ask him who he is and where he came from, and why he is now living with Miss Mead. You want to ask him why he isn’t at High School, or why he is so quiet. Instead, in that usual tactful way of yours, you state, ‘You’ve been watching me’.

He doesn’t even blink. It should unnerve you, you know this. It doesn’t. The boy, Michael, offers but a small, graceful shrug. ‘Yeah,’ he agrees, nodding just once. 

It should terrify you. It doesn’t. 

You move. It is just one step, but Michael straightens up and his chest puffs out, and you think he looks quite pleased. ‘I’m (Y/N),’ you tell him, offering a slightly shaking hand.

His is grabbing it without a moments pause, an eagerness in his movements that goes against his graceful nature. The blue eyes stare and stare and stare, and you stare right back. ‘I know,’ he informs you, all factual and lilting. ‘I’m Michael’.

‘I know,’ you hum, smiling just slightly. 

He tilts his head, hand still grasping yours, and studies your face with such intensity that you can feel your bravery wavering. After a few seconds, his warm hand curling around your palm, he says, ‘Miss Mead said you are welcome to come round after you finish School. Would you like to?’

You know the request is odd. You know your mother wold be mortified to know that you would be entering the house of the odd and off-limits Miss Mead. You know that this boy is unsettling and too inviting, but something is push your by the small of your back toward him and something is yanking you by the navel in his directions.

So, without much pause, you reply, ‘I would like that’.

He smiles, all teeth and rounding cheeks, and your stomach drops and twists. ‘Great!’

Years later, you would remember this moment. Years later, you would remember so fondly the boy who stared too hard at you and pulled on the hem of his shirt. The beautiful boy with the curls of blonde hair and the blood staining the sleeve of his shirt.


	5. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: 'I loved the new part of This Woman’s Work! Are you planning on doing a continuation where reader goes to Ms. Mead’s after school to hang out with Michael?' and 'I dont know her and Michael having sex for the first time and miss mead is thrilled about it?'
> 
> it’s kind of a blurring of both of these, hope that’s okay. this isn’t their first time (but it is smut), but there first time is coming! this is v jumpy and tried to shape how their relationship formed in a few snippets. also follow my tumblr - alpha-langdon! oxox

A lot of things changed after the first dinner with Michael and Miss Mead.  
-  
The first time, when you have arrived with a fast beating heart after school (a day of jitters and telling your friends that you were fine) you stand outside of Miss Mead’s house, your instincts telling you to just go home and forget that the boy had ever asked you.

You hadn’t done this.

It is Miss Mead who answers the door, and her smile is large and somewhat predatory, and you wonder just what the fuck you were doing going into the Satan Lady’s house. You wonder what your mother would think, if she knew where you were.

‘You must be (Y/N),’ the woman greets, all glinting teeth and quickly studying eyes. ‘Such a pretty girl, aren’t you?’ You wrinkle your nose and try not to snort because, fuck, what the hell were you supposed to say to that? Mead, in reply, merely tilts her head and titters. ‘I speak only the truth, my girl. Come on in. Michael is in his room - he’s been pretty damn excited all day, y’know’.

She watches you as you slide past her, into the oddly normal house. There are candles, yes, but-

Never mind.

There was an inverted cross on the wall to your right.

Righto.

You turn to her as she shuts the door, and the sly smile on the woman’s face tells you exactly what you need to know. She had seen you look, and now she was testing your reaction. You swallow, mouth dry and oddly nervous, and blurt out, ‘You know, I honestly couldn’t care less who you pray to at night, Miss Mead-’ You cut yourself off and her smile widens. ‘I mean - it’s - it’s fine-’

Her hand darts out and she is stroking your cheek before you can even finish your sentence, and you try very hard not to jump a foot away from her. Her smile never wavers, and her eyes continue to study you. ‘Well,’ she drawls. ‘That’s good, my dear. Very good. My, we’ve always known you would come, but you are far-’

‘Miss Mead!’

You jump and turn and see Michael standing in the hallway, his shirt ruffled and his eyes pointedly staring at his…his what, exactly? You had no idea who this woman was to him. You see only warning glint his eyes, and you wonder why the fuck you had come into this house.

You wonder why the fuck the sight of this golden haired boy makes your heart clench with a burst of heat.

Miss Mead’s laughs just slightly, before backing away and saying, quite jovially, ‘Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Go on, now. And none of that door open crap-’

You have to snort now, simply because it is too hard to hold back. She looks at you, and you see something like mirth in her face.

‘Thank you,’ Michael bites out, before looking at you. Those eyes…’It’s this way,’ he tells you, all tilting head and tight smile. ‘My room’.

You nod and feel like you are wading through a sea of awkwardness as you toe off your shoes in the silence and walk toward him. As he turns on his heel without so much as another smile, Mead glides into the kitchen without another word.

Michael’s room is…different.

It is bare and white and blue. The sheets on his bed are a crisp and clean white, and the desk to the right is piled with just three books and half a glass of water. He has wooden floors, a mirror, bare walls, and a white dark wood wardrobe.

He speaks the moment the door is closed, and you have to blink to catch up with him. ‘What’s in your bag?’ he inquires, turning suddenly to look at you. There is wide eyed curiosity in his gaze.

You blink, finding the question just slightly bizarre. ‘Oh. Books from my classes,’ you shrug the bag off of your shoulder. ‘You can have a look, if you want. You’re home-schooled, right?’

He takes the bag without any more reassurance, and flops onto the floor with an annoying amount of grace, is legs folding neatly in front of him. You watch, finding the movement oddly childlike, before shrugging and joining him.

He holds back no curiosity as he delves into your bag and flicks out the first book he can find, his face open as he plops into open in one hand open his mouth as his eyes scan the page.

You find it oddly endearing.

‘I am,’ he clarifies to your earlier question. ‘Miss Mead insists upon being well learnt. I am, according to basic educational standards, quite ahead for my age’. Something like a smile twitches onto his face, like he has some private joke, before he claps the book shut and throws all of his attention at you. 

‘She’s less terrifying than I thought she would be,’ you tell, him without thinking at all. You notice a darkening in his expression, and shake your head before he can get the wrong end of the stick. ‘Gossip,’ you tell him. ‘Usual in a place like this. I never really wanted to believe any of it. You do anything different, and suddenly you’re shunned’.

‘Is that why you didn’t tell anyone that you were coming here today?’ His expression and gaze are unwavering.

For some reason, you feel no nervousness, now that you are talking. Instead, you feel like you can…you can be quite as open and honest as you want. You quirk your mouth and reply, ‘That’s a good sign, I think. If I thought I wasn’t getting out of this house alive, I might have told people’.

At that, after just a pause, Michael smiles. ‘What do you think of it all?’ he asks you, resting his elbows on his knees so that he can lean in just a little closer. ‘Of Satan and God and Angels and Demons?’

You stare right back, intent upon keeping his gaze as he kept yours. ‘Maybe if I had proof,’ you reply. ‘But maybe I am just one of the unlucky few who haven’t been given any’.

He smirks, and you wonder why. ‘Maybe,’ Michael agrees. ‘Not yet’.

You frown, but he is already plucking another book from your bag with careful, elegant fingers, and asking you about your classes.  
-  
The dinner is long and shockingly, not as awkward as you thought it would be.

Miss Mead had prepared beef with vegetables and offered you a glass of wine, to which you had looked at her with what can only be described as an entirely torn expression. 

She had scoffed, a habit of hers, before pouring you the glass and declaring, ‘You shouldn’t deny yourself the things you want, dear girl’.

Michael smiles at you at this, to which you bite the inside of your mouth and shrug, before thanking her for the glass and drawing it toward you. The liquid was red and, when you taste, bitter but with a pleasant aftertaste. 

You talk of school and, after the third time of Miss Mead catching you looking at the satanic symbol above the table, she draws your attention to her with a teasing eye-roll and a click of her tongue.

It is there that she tells you about her beliefs. Of her taking in Michael. Of the disgusting and honest things she has done, and why she believes so soundly in the Devil.

You think you might run, and it is only when you swallow after her words and see Michael looking at you from where he sits on your right, his eyes staring and wide and so fucking blue-

And you nod, sip your wine, and reply, ‘Could you pass the water, please?’

Miss Mead looks at Michael, then. She looks at him in a way that says, there you go, and you go to sleep that night wondering why the fuck it mattered what you of all people thought of their religion.  
-  
You don’t know why. You don’t know how.

But your find yourself going to the Mead household nearly every other day. You talk to Michael in ways that you talk to no one else. He says odd, awkward things, but it is so easy to brush them aside and learn of his weird ways. He, in turn, asks of you.

He asks of your life, of how your father died, of your mother, of your friends, of your school work. He asks things that no one, in polite conversation, would ask. He asks how long it took your father to die of cancer. He asks if you are angry. 

He smiles and tilts his head in that innocent way of his when you reply, ‘I was tired of being angry, Michael’.  
-  
Miss Mead likes you. You don’t know why, honestly. You cannot fathom why this woman wants you in her house and in Michael’s life, but there is no doubt that she does. 

The first time they pray to Satan in front of you, after your sixth dinner with them, she looks at you afterwards with a hard expression and waiting eyes, to which you merely stare right back. Yes, the words had unsettled you, but would you let her or Michael know this?

Fuck, no.

She smiles, looks at Michael, and you understand for the first time that she looks at Michael like he is in charge, and not her at all.  
-  
He tells you what he is a month into your odd friendship. You had opened up to him far more than you had anyone else. Not in such ways of talking of prickly friendships at school and how you struggled with Biology. No, you told him of your mothers sleepless nights, and how grey and bruised your father had looked at the end.

You told Michael of how you had wished hard for your father to die months before he had, and how you sick you felt because of it.

He never once looked at you like you were disgusting. Michael welcomes your honest words, and you welcomed his. You found out quickly that Michael was quite a clingy person, and yearned for affection. When he tells you of his mother (who had tried to fucking kill him) and his father (who was absent), you understood why.

It is after school when he tells you. You are in his room, and he turns away from his old television to eye you for a full thirty seconds, entirely ignoring your baffled expression and, ‘What, Michael?’

‘You know I am not like other people,’ he states, and you find no reason to deny it. You have never voiced the obvious fact that Michael was odd and brilliant and like no one you had ever met. You nod, and he does not wait a moment before telling you, ‘My father is Satan’.

You think back on this moment a lot. When you are older and far more aware of things, you will wonder if this fact had been planted in you when you were born. You wonder if you had always known that you would find the boy who was born to burn, because…because there is not a second in that moment that you think he is joking or lying. 

You stare at him, and you stomach drops to your feet and you freeze in a way that had Michael assessing you with quick eyes and a tight mouth.

‘Why did you watch me?’ you whisper. You are both sitting next to each other on his bed, legs crossed and knees touching. ‘Those weeks ago. Why me?’

He tilts his head, blue eyes practically glowing, and murmurs right back, ‘Because you were made for me, even before your father even put you inside of your mother’.

He is telling you as he if you deserve to know, and you swallow and nod and raise a shaking hand. He watches, and his hand twitches as if he wants to reach for you. You shake you head in return, already slowly sliding yourself from the bed with your eyes on his. ‘I’m not leaving,’ you mutter, panicked and, God, why did information seem as if it has always been with you, somehow. Michael watches, and something sad breaks in his face.

‘No, no,’ you mutter, leaning to rest one knee on the bed and draw yourself to him. Your hand reaches for his face, and you take it as a good sign when he allows you curls your fingers around his smooth jaw.

If anything, he leans into the touch. 

‘I am - I need to think’. You are scared and worried and angry that he had no told you this sooner, but more than anything you are terrified of how much it makes sense. ‘I’ll be back, I promise. I’m not-’ You stare at him, hard and silent, before leaning in with your own clumsiness and pressing your dry mouth against his.

His hand finds your hair, and you pull away with pink cheeks and a stiff nod. ‘I’ll come back,’ you promise shakily. ‘I’m not leaving you, Michael. I need…time, and then you’ll have to answer all of my questions’.

He nods, and you’re half-surprised when he lets you go.  
-  
Three days later you come back with bags under your eyes and a brain full of Google information on the Antichrist, the Church of Satan, and the end of days.

Michael answers the door for once, clad in a white tee and black jeans, and you nod with a determined expression and fists clenched at your side. ‘You tell me,’ you tell him. ‘Everything’.

He smiles, and you think that maybe this is what making a deal with the Devil feels like.

He tells you that you were prophesied by those who knew only of Michael’s existence; those who knew where to look for the real information. You were to live when the Antichrist did, and you would be so entirely different from those who were loyal to him.

You would stand with him, and you would never leave him.

You shake and rub your forehead and laugh when Michael’s asks if you are okay. ‘Not really,’ you tell him. ‘Not at all. Is that all I am? A fire to keep you warm?’

He shakes his head, curls flying wildly and blue eyes concerned, before leaning forward on the kitchen table and grabbing at your hands. He is forward and touchy since you had entered the house, and you wonder if he had waited to get to this point. 

‘Never,’ he tells you. ‘You’re a wildfire, (Y/N). The first time I saw you, I knew I needed to make you mine’.

You are so young, you think, for all of this. It is in that moment that Michael flips your hand over, runs his fingers there, and all but grins with triumph when you jump upon seeing, for the briefest of moments, a small fire ignite there.

As you look at his grinning, almost childishly elated face, you smile right back. Years later, you would know that was the moment in which you knew you were, indeed his, but you would work your hardest to ensure that he knew full well that he would be yours, too.  
-  
You had both been young. He, aware of his destiny and you, so entirely unaware of yours.

He saw you, and you saw him.

That was that, apparently.  
-  
He touches you a lot.

You’re used to it, in the months that you had been coming to see him after school. He will only ever want to talk to you about your day, about books, about what he had learnt from Miss Mead, and what abilities he had been able to force out of himself. But his touches…he’s like a child, sometimes. Grabbing and brushing and pushing himself to sit next to you so tightly that you could feel his bones creak when he moved.

He did not, though, kiss you again.

Today is the first day of your Cheer-leading practice, and the first day that Michael sees you in the outfit. You’re self-conscious and blushing when Miss Mead laughs outright at you, to which you reply that you needed something on your college application.

At that, she merely quirks a brow, as if such a thought was stupid. You know that she expects you to stay by Michael’s side as his prophecies other fucking half or whatever, but you…you don’t know if you can do that just yet.

You knock on his door, same as usual, and enter when you hear a chair scrape. He always stood when you entered his room. It made your heart beat a mile a minute and your neck flush. Today, you do not miss the way he stalls and stares at you as you nudge the door shut with your socked foot and plonk your bag onto the floor with a soft thud.

You stare, and he stares, his almond shaped eyes tracing the deep red of your uniform, right down to your white socks-

And suddenly his gaze his flicking up from your bare legs, and you’re quite sure that the expression on his face is that of quiet fury. You had seen his tantrums; always flicking his side or tugging his curls to calm him down. ‘You wore that today?’ he asks, voice quiet in a way that tells you if he had his way, he would not be quiet at all right now.

You are torn between being fucking furious at the implications of his question, and suddenly so abruptly turned on by the ice in his voice. You swallow and flex your fingers, not quite sure what to do with yourself. You had never…never felt such a sudden and furious need to pull someone toward you like this, to touch and kiss and-

Being a teenager fucking sucked, sometimes.

You tilt your chin forward and frown. ‘It’s my uniform, Michael. I wore it to practice’.

The look on is face turns even more sour and moody, and you want to compare him to that of a fucking child, but know the words will only put him in one of his damn moods. You didn’t want that today. Today, you had wanted to flex your sore calves and curl yourself into the world that seemed to entirely secret from the rest of your life.

His mouth curls into a small sneer, and before you can even sigh and tell him off, Michael is padding toward you with hard footsteps against the wooden floor. He crowds you, lean chest level with your eyes and golden head bowed to stare down at you with that smouldering, blue eyed gaze.

‘Did they look at you?’ he inquires, voice dipping in that sarcastic, horrible way of his that could make you feel like the smallest person in the world.

You hiss and shove his chest, but he doesn’t move at all. ‘Who?’ He doesn’t answer; only stares down at you with that angry, sullen expression and you are invaded by the smell of him. Your back, you realise, is pressed against the door, and you swallow in a desperate attempt to squash how much this is making your tummy pool with hot, giddy heat. ‘For fucks sake, Michael. Who gives a shit if anyone was looking-?’

He is closer, somehow. He juts forward, and a hand flattens loudly against the door next to your head. Your mouth snaps shut audibly, and for the first time Michael pushes himself against you as a man would a woman; as a predator would his prey. You had been so constantly aware that Michael was beautiful, that you had kissed him and he you, that you were somehow, in some odd way, made to be with him. And, in turn, you.

But in that time, you had never felt the…the suddenly so adult feeling that the two of you were capable of so much more than just a simple kiss.

He is a breath away from your face, shoulders hunched as he bows over you and the rough fabric of his jeans just brushing against his exposed thighs. You stare up at him, wet your lips, and see for the first time the blowing of pupils and attraction in another’s gaze. ‘You’re mine. No one touches you but me’.

The words settle in the air and punch you in the gut, and you mutter a snarky and quick reply, the words tumbling from you without much thought, ‘Go on then’.

He moves, and you meet him in the middle.

He is fire and you are water. He surges and wraps his warmth around you, his fingers latching carefully onto your waist and his lips warm and solid against yours. You are fluid and spreading, wanting to touch every inch of him and moulding into his form.

He tastes like smoke and, with nervous hands, you touch the hem of his shirt flick a finger to the skin beneath, and you are sure you might erupt into flames with how he makes you feel.

You push against his, hardly caring at this point how desperate you seem, simply because Michael is so much the same. You wonder if he had even been kissed before you. You wonder if he knew what he did to you. His hands, so big against your waist, slide and lower and a rate that has you pulling away and panting against his mouth.

His mouth his wet and red when you look at him, and you could cry at the sight. He looks near wild, as lips edging back to find yours. There was so little restraint in him. Instead, you pant, ‘You can touch me, Michael. It’s okay’. Fuck, you think, you can do anything you fucking want to me.

His chest puffs and his jaw tightens, and you realise you might have said that last bit out loud.

He is rough and impatient, dragging his hand lower and lower until they curl around the bare and cold skin of your exposed thigh. He wastes no time in spreading his heat there, fingers flattening until he has enough leverage to pull you so close to him that you can feel his hardness pressing at you and against your lower stomach.

The door bangs and jitters and you wonder if Miss Mead get hear the slight ruckus, or if she thinks it is the wind rustling the doors. Michael, apparently, does not have the same train of thought. He is so like the boys from school, pawing and desperate to feel and touch and taste, but nothing like them at the same time. His touches are not leaving a trail of disappointment, but instead one of heat and a mad, crazed need of something inside of you that you had not yet discovered like this before.

You kiss and kiss, until your mouth carries you down the expanse of his jaw, and it is there that you discover the noises that Michael Langdon makes when you drag your teeth lightly across the sharp point of his jaw. It is also in that moment, when the deep vibration of his small moan vibrates against you, that you feel him fall forward just slightly and his knee presses between your slowly spreading legs, and your thigh finds his hardness.

You feel fucking mad with lust. You never knew such a thing could exist out of your Mom’s crappy romance novels but, fuck, you needed him. You needed to quench this burning heat in your stomach, and this-

‘Fuck, Michael,’ you paint, and he looks at you to see your cheeks colour fucking scarlet because, shit, that had slipped out without you even realising. He does not care much, apparently, opting instead to press his mouth to your again, his tongue warm and his teeth nipping and-

And he moves, suddenly and roughly and his knee nearly lifting you off the fucking floor. You had touched yourself before, of course, but this sudden friction, this pushing between your thighs and his hand that was not pressed against the door lowering to your behind and pushing aside your skirt and pressing against your skin there and-

And you think, fuck it, before grinding yourself against his knee and, in turn, him. He does pause or pull away; no, Michael moves against you like a fire taking a house. He pushes your further into the wall and his hand skims the line of skin and underwear on your behind to push your into him.

He moves and you move, and the only sound are pants and kisses and Michael, so quietly you almost do not hear, call you, ‘a good girl’.

You continue to push yourself against him, so aware of the fact that he was no longer kissing you and that you head was resting against the door behind you and that, when you gaze flickers open, you see that he is looking at you-

You come like that, fast and swift and with your mouth opening to allow tiny, choked pants to escape.

Michael does the same, hips stuttering roughly against you and his rough moan coming out unexpectedly as you pull at his hair and watch the flush travel up his cheekbone and his eyes roll back and-

And he checks you over, his pupils no pinpricks and his hair in an unusual mess. He is breathless and so much less put together, and you fall just a little more in love with him in that moment. ‘Did you…?’ He inquires, as if he does not quite know how to ask the question.

You nod, and he smirks, and kiss the expression away your hand curling around the back of his neck.


	6. Curve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> request: I’m loving all the parts of your series! I’d love to see soft michael taking care of the reader during her pregnancy. 
> 
> this is jumping forward from the last two parts, but i missed writing about post-Apocalypse Michael and a not-so-confused Reader! takes place before Birth and after Spawn. enjoy!

You never thought it would be like this, being pregnant.

There is no way to describe the feeling of another life inside of you, especially after that life starts to move and twitch beneath your skin. After the night in which you had dropped the glass on the floor in fright upon first feeling the child inside of you move, the kid seemed pretty intent on reminding you it was inside of you. 

Sometimes, in the quiet of the Outpost, now that the war of over, you think of times from your childhood. You think of meeting Michael, of being in his room and discovering so much about him and, at the same time, yourself. You wonder what your young self would think, if she knew what was to come.

You had sacrificed to much for Michael. After your mothers murder, you gave up entirely on grasping onto your life of normality and school. No, instead you became a near constant fixture in the Mead household, learning and aiding, until the time came for Michael to go to Hawthorne School.

You think it was in this time, when things started to change and Michael became something different and stronger and far more sure of himself…you think this is when things changed forever. Even before he found the Church, and all that came after. The pain and the gore and the being hidden away as the bombs dropped, alone and angry with Michael.

He had hidden you for your own good, you know, but you had clawed and scratched at him when he finally returned, months after the bombs had dropped and those people had dragged you to that odd bunker decked out with small things of yours. 

He had allowed the scratches to settle on your face, before fucking you against the wall and assuring you that he did what was best.

Now…now you are a fucking planet; a slowly growing and agitated mess of tears and hunger and hormones that will not quit. You ever quite thought it would get to this point, but you are glad it has. You never expected to be a mother, and although the feels of flesh inside your flesh fucking terrifies you, you cannot help but wrap yourself inside of this experience; this experience that was so uniquely Woman.

You felt a power that even Michael could not understand.

Today marks twenty weeks into your pregnancy, and you seems to have grown overnight. You stand in the middle of yours and Michael’s room, a room that had been chosen specifically by him upon arriving at the Outpost and old school, your oversized t-shirt hardly hiding the curve beneath your clothes.

You were glad for the simple, comfortable clothes that Michael had brought for you, somehow. You enjoyed the grandness he liked to be decked out in, but sometimes you truly enjoyed a size-too-large shirt and a pair of baggy shorts.

The mirror reflects a woman with bed-hair and a hand splayed across the curve of her stomach, her gaze tracing the small stretch marks that were beginning to adorn the sides of her thighs. You tug up the shirt, the material bunching just above the curve. It is there that you spread your fingers and glide a hand over the swell beneath your fingers, your head tilting and your mouth tugging.

You do not hear him enter the room. You had woken without him in the bed, not a rare occurrence, and assumed that he was either having breakfast with Miss Mead, or dealing with some post-apocalyptic thing that, if he needed to, he would ask for your opinion on. 

‘Do you feel ill?’ he asks into the quiet of the room, and you jumped so suddenly and so violently that your let out a mortifying yelp and spin around, glare already in place.

‘Jesus!’ you gasp, scowling and knowing what was to come. He thought he was so fucking funny when he-

‘Not quite,’ Michael offers with a small smirk, head tilting and hair splaying over one shoulder. It is times like this, when he is groomed and beautiful and so carefully put together, that you feel even more like a ruffled balloon in his presence. 

‘Oh, ha ha,’ you mutter, tugging your shirt over your bump and rolling your eyes. ‘Nothings wrong. I was just…looking’. You pull at the hem of your shirt and yawn, only to stop when Michael takes a measured step forward and assesses you with his usual cool gaze

‘You have grown in the last week. That’s a good sign-’

Your eyes narrow with such venom that Michael, the fucking Antichrist, cuts himself off and continues to watch you, his expression only faulting just slightly. You sniff loudly and snap, ‘I’ve grown?’

He apparently catches on to your train of thought, because his eyes roll so hard you’re half-surprised he doesn’t fall over. ‘Yes, (Y/N). As most do during pregnancy-’ You sniff again, to which the son of the bloody Devil marches forward and flattens his hand against your bump, his other hand dragging your gaze up to his with his finger on your chin. ‘You could be pregnant with triplets, the size of a fucking house, and I would still think you are the most beautiful creature on this planet’.

His gaze burns, his brows quirks. In reply, curl in just slightly to his form and mutter, ‘That’s not saying much, Michael. Most people are dead’. He hums a laugh, to which you bump your forehead against his chest and murmur, ‘I feel like I’m going mad. This baby is screwing with my hormones to a new damn level-’

He drops to his knees before you can finish talking. Considering how used to his antics you are, you merely cut yourself off and watch in interest as his hand still lingers against your curve, before, with blue eyes glancing up to you, he pulls back your shirt. You watch him eye your swollen belly and feel his fingers lingering against the skin there, his mouth just slightly open and his knees pressed against the floor.

‘You will never know how much I love you right now,’ he murmurs, soft and seductive in that fucking voice of his. His rings cast a cool line against your abdomen as he stretches his fingers across the expanse of your skin. He looks up at your, purposeful and lovely, and you quirk just a small smile. ‘Like this. Carrying my child; curved and beautiful’. 

He pushes forward until his forehead rests against his hand on your stomach, his eyes fluttering closed. With soft fingers, your find the roots of his hair and settle your hand there. 

‘You are a specimen beyond even my comprehension when you are like this’. You breathe hard at his words, your fingers tugging just slightly to draw his gaze up to yours. You hold his cheek and then his jaw, watching the way his eyes flutter and his mouth curves. He moves his gaze back to your stomach, cold rings tracing, and mutters, ‘Filia mea’.

Something shifts inside of you, and you huff out a laugh. ‘They’re listening,’ you tell him, guiding his hand to press where the little body inside of you was shifting. ‘I think you woke them up’.

His nose brushes against your skin, and you feel the baby move again, harder this time, as if they are reaching for their father. You hum and scoff and mutter, ‘Fucking Hell. Not even born yet, and they prefer you over me’.

The smile that he throws up at you is teasing and smug, and reminds you so suddenly of the boy who used to twitch his curtains to find you, that you blink and grin in surprise. 

‘Are you sure you don’t want to know the gender?’ Michael inquires, rising to his feet and towering over you once again. He doesn’t look away from your gaze as he tugs your shirt to cover your belly. ‘Miss Mead is quite frustrated that she cannot know as you do not, either’. He cocks a brow, teasing and calm.

You snort and reply, ‘Quit it, Michael. I swear, if you tell me, I will shave your head in your sleep’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filia mea - my daughter.


	7. Prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> request: I dont know her and Michael having sex for the first time and miss mead is thrilled about it?
> 
> back to young!michael timeline here. i’ve already half answered this request, but i wanted to do it properly. thank you so much for being so amazing, all of you!

You stand on the edge of the treeline, your hands held tightly in front of you and your black cloak pulled tightly around your shoulders.

You wouldn’t normally wear something like it, but Miss Mead had insisted that you would need to keep warm, and that you would need to camouflage well into the treeline as you waited for him. 

For Michael.

He had been gone for what seemed like so long, only contacting Miss Mead to tell her where he was, and why he was there. A Warlock School, he told her, where they believe him to be the Alpha, or some shit. Mead had glistened and preened at the news, slamming down the phone and grabbing at you with pointed nails.

‘Hail Satan!’ she had shouted, after telling you the news and pressing her forehead in elation to yours. You had been staying with her more than usual the last few weeks, so worried about where Michael was. Now, upon learning that he was so entirely safe…

Now. Now you just wanted to fucking murder the brat.

Perhaps it is the fact that you were on the other side of your period; all cranky and hormonal. Perhaps it was the fact that you had missed Michael’s touches and kisses; which came so much more often since the two of you had rubbed against each other in his bedroom. Perhaps it was the fact that your mother and friends were beginning to see something wrong with you. 

Perhaps it was the feeling of something terrible coming that you could not shake.

(You would not be wrong. Three weeks from now, your mother would be shot on her way back from work. Right in the head. It would break you).

You know it is not a bad thing that Michael had been taken by these men. He needed to escape, after the incident with the knives and the butcher. You knew this. It did not, though, stop you from being fucking annoyed that he had glided away like he could fucking do that. 

Except he could. Would that be your life? Simply following the steps of the boy (the near man) that you were so meant to be with?

That wasn’t you. There would never be you.

Miss Mead had seen him once already, and had thrown you a drily amused look when you had told her you would see him another time, if he was just going to be in one place. You had homework to do, considering you were so close to finishing your education. 

‘Your place is not to make his life more difficult, (Y/N),’ she had mused, already bouncing with excitement at the prospect of seeing Michael. 

You had slid your phone into your pocket and stood, ready to make your short walk back home. You had glowered at her, tired and annoyed. ‘The same can be said for him, Miss Mead. I’m going to go home. Tell Michael I said hello, won’t you?’

That had been a week ago, and after Mead coming home to inform you of how disappointed Michael had been you, you had agreed to come the following week. Alone. 

At that, she had smirked. ‘Maybe you two will finally do Satan’s will and fu-’

You had cut her off before she could say anything, your cheeks pink, and that was that. The following week had arrived, and here you stood. Mead had dropped you at the edge of the forest and given you instructions through the woods, and now you could see, just in the distance, the glint of some kind of building and the amber of firelight.

You see him, then. A hurried movement in the darkness; a cloak flailing after a tall and lithe figure. You stand straighter and watch, stiff and miffed, until you see his pale face dance in the moonlight, his mouth twisting into a pleased smile-

A smile which falters when he sees your expression. He stops before you, so annoyingly beautiful in his cloak and chains, and says, quite disappointment, ‘You’re annoyed, still’.

You raise both brows. ‘My, you are smart’.

He sighs and moves closer to you so that he can rest both hands on your shoulders and push you back into the darkness of the trees. You tense at the motion, more than aware of the cold change in his eyes and the way his fingers curl hard against you. 

You had seen, nearly straight away, the change in Michael. If it wasn’t the push of golden hair to reveal more of his face, it was the way he held himself. It was the straightening of his back and the sureness of his step. It was the constant puff of his chest and the analysing expression on his face. 

He was becoming something else; something new. 

He crowds you, head dipped and mouth pulled into a tight frown. ‘I did what I had to do, you know that,’ he insists, partly annoyed and partly pleading. You look up at him, mouth clamped shut and arms hanging at your sides as he continues to hold you. ‘They are teaching me things here, (Y/N)! Miss Mead and I have already planned so much-’

You push a hand between you and shove him lightly. Shockingly, he does not move at all, but the expression on his face darkens still. ‘I don’t enjoy being left behind,’ you snap quietly into the rustling of leaves. Michael watches, breathing heavily through his nose. ‘I don’t enjoy being treated like a follower. I am your equal or I am nothing to you, Michael-’

You see a trace of that stubborn boy as he frowns angrily, blue eyes ablaze, and steps closer to you. You shudder out a breath without meaning to, almost breathless with how much you had missed him. However pissed you were, there was something that latched you and Michael Langdon together. Something otherworldly. ‘Are you stupid?’ he snaps, dark brow drawing together. 

You pause, swallow, and then, ‘Michael, this is not how you apologise to a woman-’

He hisses and draws you even closer, his nose nearly brushing yours as he mutters angrily to you. ‘You have no idea,’ he snaps, breathless and so warm. You stare up at him, your fingers curling around the edge of his cloak and you skin burning from where he grabs at your shoulder. ‘I do everything for the path that my Father has set me on. The path that he has promised to myself, and to my other half. I did not do this for me, (Y/N). I am doing it for us. I love you, you idiotic, magnificent moron-’

When you kiss him, for maybe the seventh or eighth time, you feel almost as if you are signing yourself over to the Devil. The irony does not escape you.

He kisses back furiously, his mouth hot and open against yours. The more you had kissed him over the past few months, the more sure of himself that Michael had become. Your fingers curl around his jaw as you move against him, your boots curling as you move onto your tiptoes to reach him. He holds you, arms encircling you, all warmth and solid, trustworthy strength.

‘I think I still doubted any of it,’ you murmur against his mouth, still holding him close. His eyes flutter open and meet yours, all thick eyelashes and harsh blue. ‘That I was meant for you, or whatever. You’re too…’ You shake your head and struggle to say the words without sounding like a fucking idiot. ‘It’s not the things that you can do, or that you’re the Antichrist. I know that matters to so many, and I know that it matters to you, but I just…shit, it’s just you, Michael. I love you’. You bite your lip and scoff, only stopping when Michael mouths his way to your neck and mutters a low, 

‘I want you’.

Your stomach twists and your hands shake as you hold him. You had never had sex, not with anyone. With Michael…he was the only one you had ever let touch you in the way that he did. He was the only one who you would even consider-

Your answer is a leg pressed against his hardening crotch, and a kiss to the curve of his jaw.

The both of you seem so suddenly unaware of the cold, even as Michael pushes you against a nearby tree and mutters words that you cannot understand under his breath, and you unbutton the clasps of his cloak. He allows you to do so with no qualms, and you understand for the first time that Michael trusts you just as much as you trust him. 

He bites at your neck, and you wonder just how much this school had changed him. There was a confidence to him that was never apparent in his small and tidy room, but the the way he moved against you now…it turned you to a hot, fiery mess. He was all hard limbs pushing against yours, teeth grazing your neck and biting at your bottom lip, hands pushing and palming at places they had once skimmed.

With the bark against your back, you push aside his many layers of shirts and waistcoats, until they hang loose about his toned and slim chest, and you feel as if you might explode from how much you want him.

You watch him, so entirely fascinated by the artwork before you, when you dip your hand into the opening of his straight-cut trousers and wrap you fingers around him, all warm and hard and perfect and-

And he leans into your when you move your hand against him, and the low sound that comes from him is what heaven must sound like, and you care so little for the irony. You care only for his lips pressing against your cheek and his hair tickling your forehead as you bite his neck and, fuck, the noise he makes when you squeeze-

He jolts and moves quickly, almost blindly reaching for your cloak and snapping it from your shoulders with, what you assume, is his powers. You pull you hand from him when he begins to push up the jumper you wear, his eyes blown black and his lip bleeding-

You stomach hums with warm heat when you realise that you had done that.

Michael seems to think the same thing as you stand before him in just your bra and jeans. With his shirt half falling off his shoulders and his slacks undone, he thumbs the blood smudging your mouth and flicks his gaze up to yours. ‘I think I might have bit you too hard,’ you murmur, surprised at how your voice sounds. Breathy. Low. 

It makes sense, somehow, that you both find yourself shedding your clothes onto the floor of the woods, where nature and dirt lie around you. You feel no cold, and you wonder if it is Michael. You care so little when he presses your bare back against the rough and dry floor, before lowering his bare self against you in a way that you had imagined far too many times. 

He is both rough and gentle. Both sure and unsure. Both patient and impatient. He meets your kisses in the middle and, when you feel his hardness press against your inner thigh, you shudder and glance just once up at the sky, just partially visible through the canopy of leaves. 

Your gaze flies back to Michael when he mutters lowly (and you had never heard his voice like this before, so low and deep), ‘Can I kiss you…down there?’ He is suspended above you, awash with darkness and moonlight and suddenly untamed golden hair. You touch his cheek and nod.

And you are fucking glad that you did.

He likes discovering new things, your Michael. You learnt this every time you brought round a new school book, or flipped open your laptop to show him a song or a movie. It ate up information like he was starving for it and there, on that dirty floor where dead leaves lay, he learns of your body.

You are half surprised when he folds his arms over your thighs and jutting hipbones to hold you down, the dry dirt sliding from both of your skins like sand. The first kiss his sweet and soft. There comes a link, next. A kiss and a lick, and then a bite to the apex of your thighs. It takes minutes for him to study your reactions, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, and you realise that you have never been this bare before him.

Then why does it feel so normal?

You have never had anyone touch you there, and Michael stakes his claim in a way that no one else can. He learns quickly, sliding his fingers where they need to go and humming in affirmation when you tell him what to do.

It is when you say his name like a sweet prayer that he climbs back up your body, flushes and with a wet mouth, and crushing his mouth to yours when you say very simple, dazed, ‘Micheal’.

It is how you find yourselves like that; two pale bodies pressed so tightly together that you might become one. You move slowly and roughly, like animals caught in a clearing in the moonlight. It does not hurt when he slides into you, and you both watch each other with fluttering eyelashes and quiet gasps every time he pushes into you.

He loses himself quickly, just a split second before your eyes flutter open and he begins to find the right spot within you. In those few moments, you get to see his cheeks rise with a flush and his mouth fall open as he moves above you, beautiful and perfect-

The first noise you make is a whine; sudden and breathy and it comes from nowhere because, fuck, you didn’t know something could feel this could. This sudden and sharp swirl of pleasure, but not quite-

You’re not sure why you feel as if the both of you are creating a show for some unknown presence. You don’t know why, when he slid into you, you felt as if something, some untold prophecy, had slipped into place. You don’t why it feels so animal and slow and like Michael is trying to push you into Hell with out far is grinding you into the dirt. 

Afterwards, when you have clumsily replaced your clothes and sit against the tree, sore and aching between your legs thumbing the blood from Michael’s lip, that’s when you tell him, ‘I’m with you until the end, you know’.

He takes your hands and kisses your fingers, his skin pale and his eyes wide and his hair curled. He studies you like a Professor reads a book. ‘I won’t be able to do it without you. You and Miss Mead…you are all I have’.

You bring his mouth to yours again and somewhere in the darkness, a woman with dark lips and pale skin and the name Mead smiles, because it is all going as the Dark lord intended it to. 

In the beginning, there was Adam and Eve; there was Jesus and Mary Magdalene. 

In the end, there was, and would be, Michael and (Y/N).


	8. Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> request: Could you write a piece for “ This woman’s work” about Michael and reader picking out baby names. Ms. Mead suggests Sabrina as a joke, but Michael likes it. And reader has to explain to Michael why they can’t name their daughter Sabrina. They go back an forward, until they finally settle on the name that Michael calls the baby when he is holding the baby while it’s crying and he gets her to stop crying.
> 
> follow my tumblr - alpha-langdon to request more!

She was tiny. 

You weren’t entirely sure how something that looked so small could hurt so fucking much coming out of you. Two days on, and you were almost entirely sure you would never be able to sit down properly again. 

You were in the library, having one of the few scarce moments in which you, Michael and Miss Mead were in the same room, without you or Michael busy elsewhere. In the last few weeks, there had been more and more word of the savages from Outside dying out. You didn’t know whether to be relieved, or feel sick at the thought. 

You were not so entirely on Michael’s side about all of humanity being born inherently evil. You, yourself, saw humanity as something that could do terrible thing given the opportunity. After Miss Mead and Cordelia, though, he lost all capability of forgiving the worlds wrongs. 

You were sat on the sofa, the fire burning, and with the tiny, wriggling little mass held in your arms. You weren’t even sure if you were doing it right, and every ten seconds you looked up at Miss Mead with a quizzical expression, to which she would cock a brow and reply, 

‘What makes you think  _I’ve_ held a lot of babies, huh?’

You huff and hold your nameless daughter closer to your chest. Since the birth, just two days ago, you had opted for anything loose and baggy. One, to hide whatever the fuck was going on with your body since the birth (Michael, of course, insisted that you were being ridiculous, whereas Miss mead often grimaced and uttered she was glad she never bore any children), and two, because your breasts seemed to have a mind of their own when it came to lactating.

You shift in your seat and wince, still sore. The baby in your arms, with her pale hair and small nose, stirs only slightly in your relaxed arms. You were entirely baffled by her existence; how she had come from yourself and Michael and turned into this, a real and breathing little human. She would one day be capable of thought and speech-

And sometimes you wondered what she would be like. Whether she would struggle as Michael did, and whether she would have the same impulses he had. Selfishly, and without telling him, you hoped not. 

You think he felt the same. 

Michael, who stands in front of the burning fire in only a loose, black, button-up shirt, slacks and pointed shoes, considers you with a long look, before sighing. ‘It should not be this hard to name another human being. Miss Mead,  _tell_ her’.

You scoff at his antics and mutter something about him being brat, to which Mead huffs a laugh and Michael rolls his eyes sky high. ‘I want something unique and different, but not…nothing like, I don’t know, something the  _Kardashian’s_ would name their kids’.

‘The  _who_?’ He frowns at you, blue eyes narrowing and face jumping in a bemused manner. You were, sometimes, forgetful when it came to remembering that Michael had been on this Earth far shorter than you had.

A realisation that, years ago, had brought on hysterical, panicked laughter from you. 

‘Never mind, Michael’. She stirs, only slightly, and you lean back into the sofa with Miss Mead just a seat over from you. She watches, ever the guard of your small family (family, how odd was that?), ‘And I am not naming her  _Lilith_ , or-’

‘Yes,’ Michael mutters, turning to look meaningfully over his shoulder. ‘You made that  _abundantly_ clear, my dear. Thank you’.

‘Or  _Beelzebub_ -’

‘You are being  _ridiculous_ -’

‘Huh,’ Miss Mead laughs, lounging into the couch cushions with one eye trained on your sleeping daughter. ‘ _Sabrina_ would be a funny thing to call her, wouldn’t it?’ She lets out a short bark of laughter, to which you roll your eyes and cast a quick eye to Michael-

Who looked  _worryingly_ thoughtful. He pauses, stared into the burning flames of the fireplace, before turning to face you with one solid turn of his heel. He tilts his head and blinks. ‘I do like that one,’ he declares, after a few seconds more thought. You cannot help but gape, to which he wrinkles his nose and assesses you with a put-out look. ‘ _What_?’

You cast a quick glance to Miss Mead, of whom shares a cautious look with you. Michael was a…a sore loser, to say the least. He did not like not knowing things, that was for sure. ‘Michael.  _Sabrina_ is the name of a famous character from pop-culture,’ you explain to him, trying very hard to keep the smirk off of you mouth. You shift your daughter in your arms. ‘A very famous  _Witch_ ’.

Michael stares at you, his jaw tightening, before he casts a quick blue-eyed stare to Miss Mead. ‘You are utterly evil,’ he informs her, to which she cackles. 

‘I should  _hope_ so!’

Apparently all of your chattering had been too much for the bundle in your arms, because it does not take long for a small whine to creep out from your daughter. You stall, heart seizing because, fuck no, you had only just got her to stop crying half an hour ago. ‘Oh,  _please_ no,’ you mutter.

It is just at the same time that blue eyes squint just slightly open, a tiny face screws up in utter anguish, and your daughter begins to scream as if you had burst a balloon in her face. 

You move, even after just two days aware of how your daughter liked to be held. She was not hungry, that much you knew, and nor did she smell like she did when she…well, that had been an experience for yourself and Michael, to say the least. You hold her closer to your chest and coo, your brow scrunched and your fingers curling around her tiny fingers. ‘I  _wonder_ where she gets her dramatics from,’ you mutter over the crying, just loud enough for Michael to hear.  

He pointedly ignores you.

He is already lowering himself to your height, a question in his gaze as he motions to take your screaming and red daughter from your arms. You hardly hesitate, to which he nods and carefully extracts her, all large hands and careful eyes and a tongue wetting his lip.

‘She has  _your_ yell,’ Mead mutters to you, ignoring your side-glare.

You had not, in the last two days, tired of seeing Michael hold your daughter against his chest. It was a sight that you never thought you would see, or even want to see, but it made your tilt you chin forward and smile all the same. It took you a while to realise that the feeling stirring inside of you was  _pride_. You knew full well that he never thought he would have his own flesh and blood to love or care for, and you were more than happy, after time, to give that to him.

He continues to face you, his head dipped to eye the face of his screaming daughter. His patience, as you knew it could be with what mattered, was unwavering with her. He merely blinks at her, with eyes that he had gifted her, and murmurs, ‘She is remarkable,’ as if the fact was so utterly true and obvious.

This goes on for a goo thirty seconds, and you hear Mead sigh with pleasure from next to you, and you look at her to realise that the copy of the woman was smiling as if she had waited years to see this. 

And then Michael tilts his head, his hair brushing over your crying daughters face, and utters one simple word that has her blinking up at him with a red face and a crinkled brow. ‘Diana’.

There is silence.

Utter silence. 

‘Goddess of the Moon,’ you muse, as Michael and…and Diana continue to blink up at each other. You stand, wincing just slightly, and hobble over to the both of them. Mead, you know, stares with a slightly smirk on her features. ‘I quite like that. Diana Lily Langdon’.

He looks at you, a hint of a real smile on his features, before just a sliver of shining teeth peak past his curved mouth. You thumb at Diana’s fingers, smiling wryly at the way her eyes dart between the two of you. ‘Is that the closest you will allow me to get to Lilith?’

‘Michael, for the thousandth time, I am not naming our daughter after a  dangerous demon of the night, who is sexually wanton, and who steals babies in the darkness-’

He traces a finger nose the tiny bridge of her nose, and mutters sulkily, ‘She would be feared and  _revered_ -’

‘She is the daughter of the two of you,’ Mead cuts in, rising to her feet and scoffing. ‘The child is destined to be something else entirely’.

You kiss Michael’s cheek and nudge him with the end of your nose. ‘Diana, then?’

‘Diana’.


	9. Abandon

The bunker is small; it is decked out with books and quilts and pens and paper. All the things he knew that you would love. There was even a stack of DVD’s of films that you had shown him in his bedroom at Miss Mead’s, what seemed like aeons ago.

You had been here for - well, you were not entirely sure how long.  _Too_ long. It hadn’t taken you long to figure out what was happening, once those two men had come to drag you from where you had been. You had bid Michael farewell that morning, albeit moodily (he was keeping you tucked away from Witches and such), and then…

And then, an hour later, two men were kicking down your door and dragging you away, as people in the streets screamed and your phone buzzed with updates from News Apps that the end was coming and a text.

From Michael.

_I will come for you._

You had lost count of the days, giving up taking note after day fifteen passed. You had enough food, that much was true, but after studying every inch of the bunker (after screaming until your throat was raw after those men who had dumped you in here without so much as a word), you had realised that this place had been fucking catered for you.

Right down to the food that you enjoyed.

He had planned this.

The realisation had sent your stomach rolling and your cheeks flushing in anger. He had known that he would put you here. He had known that you would no join him. He had known exactly what date he would drop those fucking bombs. You hadn’t…hadn’t even been entirely sure that he would do it. You had spoken to him, inquired if there was another way-

In your solace, you burnt with rage.

Every other day, you find yourself screaming with rage and tears as you wonder if he was dead, somehow. Would he not have come by now? It was times like this, in your loneliest moments, that you missed your mother. It hadn’t been long at all since her death, and the darkness and grief still stirred inside of you.

You smash a glass one night and forget about it the next morning, only to present your poor forearm with an almighty slice. You had sworn and cried, yet fucking again, and screamed into the pillow on the couch until your throat hurt.

You are standing in the kitchen two days after this incident, a saucepan of boiling water bubbling in front of you, when hear the sound that you had not heard since those men had tapped those numbers into the keypad and thrown you over the threshold into the bunker.

You hear the three beeps, and the hiss of the vault door unlocking. 

Your heart hammers, and you reach blindly for a knife, laying innocently on the white counter-top. You move, bare feet pressed silently against the cold floor as you move, more than aware of the sound of rustling and ripping; of something hitting the floor-

Then the footsteps echo, closer and closer, and you tighten your hold on the knife and stand quiet and silent and- 

When you see him, dressed in his pristine clothes and his eyes hard on you, you hardly react at all.

He speaks first, his head tilting and his golden hair just a little longer than when you had last seen him. He looks minutely desperate, as if he had hurried here. You want to scoff. Hurried probably wasn’t the right word to use. ‘(Y/N)-’

You throw the knife.

He looks, much to your fucking elation, surprised as the knife swerves and defies gravity as it right angles away from him. Blinking back to you, he opens his mouth and draws his eyebrows together tightly, except you are already marching toward him.

Perhaps it is because he has never witnessed your true rage, but you’re quite surprised when Michael doesn’t try to stop the solid punch your aim at his cheek.

He hardly staggers, but something like pleasure curls inside of you when he looks back at you, hair a little wild and blood beading his lip, and you snap, ‘You  _left me_ -’

He straightens up and frowns. ‘You don’t-’

‘Shut  _up_ , Michael!’ You screech the words, and wonder if maybe you were only going so mad because you had so much pent up rage inside of you. You slam the palms of your hands against his chest. He does not move, but instead considers you with a level gaze and a patient expression.

This makes you madder.

 _‘I will come for you_  - that’s all you fucking message me, you unimaginable  _asshole_!’ You push him again, pathetic attempts to hurt him somehow. ‘I have been alone and scared - I heard those fucking bombs drop on top of me, Michael!’ Another hit. His blue eyes blaze. You realise you are crying; pitiful little sounds as your fingers curl around the lapels of his jacket. ‘You could have been  _dead_ , for all I knew!’ You jolt him, and he moves, allowing you to manhandle him. ‘If I lost you, after my mom…’ You glare up at him, bloodshot eyes and wet cheeks and jutting jaw. ‘ _Stop leaving me behind_ ’.

For just one second, he seems almost stumped. Then, with one careful hand, he draws one of your hands from his jacket and curls his long fingers with yours, before dragging it to his mouth and pressing his dry lips there. ‘I’m sorry. I become so obsessed with ensuring that you are protected, that I forget you are able to look after yourself, (Y/N)’.

You sniff and nod and mutter, ‘ _Good_ ’.

When he kisses away your tears and drags his nose along your cheek, whispering things to you that eat up because, fuck, you had missed the sound of another voice.  _His voice_. 

‘Is it all gone?’ you ask, finally. You’re not sure whether or not you completely dread the answer.

He pulls away, blue eyes blazing and hair just that little bit longer and face a mask of power and calm at the same time. He nods, just slightly. ‘It’s done,’ Michael tells you. ‘Would you like to see?’

You wonder what it says about you when you nod. 


	10. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> request: Maybe something for “This Woman’s Work” where Michael and reader have a wedding at the outpost since the anti-christ needs a bride and all that. And they end up having a blood ritual as a way to consummate their marriage.
> 
> follow my tumblr - alpha-langdon!

There were still things that you did not know about The End.

By that, you mean the days leading to the bombs. You know that Michael had gone to deal with the Witches, and had come back with sweat on his brow and a look in his eye that made your skin crawl. You know that Mead had been with him every step of the way; a help to him that was so different to how you helped him. You know that he had his followers, the ones who would aid him in carrying on the Apocalypse. 

You know that he hid you to keep you safe, and you know that you hated it.

It is perhaps why, now, you were so intent upon being as helpful as you could; it was why you insisted on him telling you everything that was happening on the outside. Perhaps it was your way of punishing yourself…of knowing exactly how terrible it was out there. You would walk the dusty, horrible air with Michael from time to time, but you would never venture as far as he did.

You’re not sure why. He insisted on it. It wasn’t like you would be unsafe, with him by your side. 

You know that the Outpost is now where you will be forever. There is somewhere, Michael tells you, where you will go, eventually. You wonder why he wishes to wait, to which he will reply, 

‘There are certain things we must do, first’.

You think you know what it is, and it terrifies you. Miss Mead had whispered it to you, as the two of you had sorted through the belongings left behind at the Outpost. ‘The Dark Lord wishes for his unholy line to carry on’. She cackles when you look at her, entirely aghast. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t realise this was comin’, girl. I’ve known you long enough, now’.

It is nine days into being at the Outpost when you wake up, one morning, with Michael still in bed beside you. This was a rare occurrence, and always had been. You blink up at him, groggy and sleepy, and appreciate for just one moment the sight of him sitting up in bed, shirtless and golden hair spilling over his shoulders, and blink hard when you see the traces of black in his eyes.

You made you nervous to know that, sometimes, he would talk to his Father like that. To know that Satan was real and that he watched you, too.

You prod his side and he looks down at you, so annoyingly put-together and beautiful first thing in the morning. He smiles, just slightly, and you know full well that he mocking your bird nest hair and squinting eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ You wince at your raspy voice and rub at your nose. 

His fingers wrap into your hair, all soft and commanding at the same time. He inches you to look up at him, and his blue eyes consider you for just a moment. ‘Come here,’ he murmurs, finally. ‘I have a question for you’.

You roll your eyes in a mocking manner, before complying. You wear nothing, as you normally did in bed with him, and shuffle to clamber onto his lap with his guiding hands. He watches you, settling your thighs either side of his with strong hands, before flattening them against your mess of hair and staring up at you.

‘You’re being weird,’ you accuse him, skin on skin. ‘More so than usual’.

He huffs and bows his head in admission, before his lids flutter to look back up at you. ‘You have always been there,’ he tells you, tilting his head and gazing up at you. ‘Through it all; through the wretched and the good, you were there. I am not so arrogant as to not assume that you could have left; declining to follow the path laid out for the both of us’. You frown, fingers resting against his abdomen. ‘Even when we were young and so entirely naive; before I had even spoken to you, I felt as if I knew everything there was to know about you. Humanity is foul and disgusting, but you were carved aside from the damned-’

You shift in his lap, bare against him and he you, and he cuts himself off. With nimble fingers, Michael draws his careful hands down you shoulders, until the rest on your forearms. ‘Michael,’ you say, with utter seriousness in your voice (except that mocking tinge that, for some reason, he never seemed to grow annoyed of). ‘Are you about to ask me to marry you?’ There is joking in your voice because  _of course_  he wasn’t-

Except, he is staring at you now, deadpan and slightly exasperated, and your mouth pops open and you scramble for his cheeks, the laugh bursting from your chest before you can stop it. ‘Oh, you are!’

‘Well, you have fucking  _ruined_ it now-’

You laugh and press a solid kiss to his mouth, to which he accepts with fingers now sliding to your waist. You pull away from his mouth, all red cheeks and teeth biting your lip. ‘I never thought that was something-’

‘Not marriage,’ he corrects, so confident and calm. ‘A  _binding_ , of sorts. You are mine, and I am yours. I have spoken to my Father, and such a thing has been promised since before the both of us were born. I…I  _want_ this’.

Your heart beats in your chest, and you nod. ‘I suppose you want my answer?’ You cock a brow, to which he offers just a small smile.

‘It would be appreciated, yes’.

You whisper a yes against his lips, and press your breasts close to his chest. ‘When?’ You inquire, nose brushing against his. He does not speak, but instead indicates for you to climb from the large bed with him, and when the sheets fall away from both of your forms, you both stand in the candlelight, naked and skin brushing. 

‘Now,’ Michael answers, leading you to the middle of the room. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes’.

He holds you in the middle of the room, hands linked and chests heaving, and you see anticipation locked in those emotive eyes of his. You, yourself, are swallowing hard and trying your hardest to hold your knees steady. 

‘He is watching,’ Michael tells you, to which you nod and breathe hard. There is a glint, and you see a knife slip from seemingly nowhere into his right hand, steel and long. He eyes you, and you eye him. ‘We bind as one,’ he says, slicing his left hand without a wince.

You know what is to come. You have seen him do it before, only a few times. The blood and the whispers; a Ritual saved only for special occasions. Here, now, you allow Michael to slice your own hand and smear it against his, fingers locking and sliding against each other with the aid of the sticky liquid. 

You clench your jaw and look up at him, a feeling crawling over you skin. He draws his hand up your arm, and you feel your skin there prickle and split as blood beads there. In return, you breathe heavily, your own fingers tracing the expanse of his chest.

And there, somehow, you leave blood bubbling in your wake. 

Michael bows closer to your, blonde hair cascading over his chest, and smears his blood with yours. It burns over your skin, leaving a prickle of goosbumps in its wake, and without really meaning to you let out a small gasp of pleasure, to which Michael draws his lips over your cheek and murmurs words that you know are Latin, but in that moment, you understand completely.

‘ _I am hers_ ,’ he whispers. ‘ _And she is mine_ ’. His eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttering as his lips draw over the quickly drying blood that is both his and yours. You stumble against him, so overcome with power and lust and utter adoration-

_‘Father, see us’._

The candles flicker and cast shadows across the room that move like people; rounding the two of you and whispering into the air. Michael presses a hand against the small of your back and drags you closer to him, teeth dragging across your collarbones as he pulls you to the floor with him, both of your knees hitting the wood softly.

When you meet his gaze, you find his jaw clenched, his pupils blown wide, and his hard length pressed against his stomach.

The knife glints in the light again, and Michael drags his gaze from yours to slide at his biceps, far deeper than before. You pant and watch, lips moist and thighs clenched, as the blood falls in droplets from his blemish free skin. 

He paints the  _Sigil of Baphomet_  around the two of you, leaning over to you to only guide you shaking fingers as he wets you with his blood, and with his help you complete the inverted pentagram. 

When Michael’s needy mouth presses hotly against yours, you hardly notice the candlelight grow and the blood sizzle around you. He drags you to him, hard fingers pressing against your backside as you slide onto his waiting lap, all teeth and tongue and heady gasps.

You find yourself clawing at any skin you can find, because never have you felt closer to him in this moment. Never have you felt more like the two of you were born to walk Earth at the same time. He slides into you easily, and you take him as you always have done; welcoming the feel of him stretching your walls and moving against you.

You could sing a fucking prayer about the way Michael Langdon feels when he moves inside of you.

He moves up into you, and you move down into him. He tastes like sin and his soft groans sound like heaven, and you wonder how the two can co-exist. You move above him, his hands guiding your hips and your hair brushing against his cheeks.

He gazes up at you as your eyelashes flutter and you jaw slackens, and you understand that maybe Michael worships you, just as you worship him. ‘ _Pulchra_ ,’ he murmurs, mouth against your breast. You ride him, hips sliding and the blood drying against your skin, and shudder when he licks it away from the valley of your breasts.

‘Michael,’ you murmur, desperate and so close and so entirely in love with him. His fingers grip tighter against you, his hands dragging you back and forth on his lap, until he forces your head down to his and groans into your mouth.

You feel him wet between your thighs, and when you come it is with a swift nip to his lip and a choked gasp-

And as the candlelight flickers, you both gasp heavily into the dim room. You tug your fingers through his long hair, and he presses a swift kiss to your collarbone. ‘ _Thank you_ ,’ he murmurs to you, bowing his forehead against your chest, and you envelope him with your shaking arms. 

_For everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pulchra - beautiful.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> request: Can you do a womans work with them raising their child and going to the outposts with their kid?

‘But  _why_?’

You look at her; her wide blue eyes and her mess of blonde curls (it was an utter nightmare to get her to use a hairbrush) , and sigh. ‘Why do we have hearts? Let’s see. Because-because it’s what keeps us  _alive_ -’

‘But.  _Why_?’

You stare, utterly lost on how to reply to your daughter. Lately, she  _insisted_ on asking a ridiculous amount of questions. So many, that you were finding yourself wondering if she would ever stop. ‘Because that’s how we were made, Di. See-’ You draw her hand, her tiny little hand, to your chest. ‘That’s my heart. It’s pumping blood all around my body, just like  _yours_ -’

She jolts from her place on the couch with you, her gaze snapping to the empty doorway. You figure out who it is rather quickly. She always felt him coming, even when you couldn’t. Her head tilts and her smile blossoms when Michael rounds the corner, cool gaze assessing the surroundings of the library.

When he sees the two of you, you with an exasperated expression and your daughter looking utterly elated, he quirks a small smirk. ‘Father!’ she gleams, her fingers curling around your own in excitement. ‘Mama is showing me how our hearts work!’

You were Mama. Michael was Father. You had told him point blank you would rather die than be called  _Mother_.  

Michael cocks a brow and glides into the room, hands clasped behind his back and mouth quirking into a small smile. ‘ _Is_ she?’ He casts a glance over to you, and you shake your head as if to say  _you don’t know what I’ve been through._

You unlatch yourself from Diana, before dragging her onto your lap and pressing your mouth to her ear. She snickers, neck curling in an attempt to stop your breath from tickling her. ‘Why don’t you tell your Father what  _else_ you learnt today, Di?’

Michael settles onto the couch with the two of you, his back straight and his gaze feasting over his daughter. Diana hoots, before scrambling away off of you and beginning her usual way of climbing off the sofa.

Apparently, climbing over the back of it with flailing legs was the newest trend. You scramble to catch her chubby legs. ‘No, Di, I’ve  _told_ you-’

Michael flattens his mouth in an attempt to not smile, his fingers coming to guide her easily over the back of the furniture. ‘We do not want a repeat of when you fell down the-’

She isn’t listening. You learnt rather quickly that around the age of five, as she was, children just did not listen. Instead, your daughter darts around the sofa and skids to a stop on bare feet, her fingers twitching at her sides. With wide eyes and an equal grin, she spread her fingers wide and-

And snow falls from the ceiling.

You watch Michael carefully. He twitches, apparently surprised, and watches Diana like a hawk. You know what he is looking for. He is looking for a trace of something  _dark_. Something that she will not be able to stop from brimming out of her-

It doesn’t. She blinks up at the snowflakes falling from seemingly nowhere, and her grubby hands (smudged with chalk) tremble just slightly as she squints. You are about to tell her to stop, that is enough, but Michael is swooping low onto his knees before you can voice anything.

He clasps her hands and the snow stops, and you breathe a deep sigh when he curls his long fingers around her own and whispers, ‘That was  _marvellous_ , Diana’.

You know he means it. He punctuates the sentence with a kiss to her forehead and a deep look into the eyes that he gad gifted her, before he brushes her shoulders and whispers for her to go and wash her hands.

She does, but not before tripping over her own feet in her rush and snorting at her own silliness. 

You draw yourself toward Michael, feet taking you toward his thoughtful gaze. ‘She isn’t the most angelic child, is she?’ You mutter, watching her scramble toward the washroom. ‘She  _certainly_ got my clumsiness’.

Michael turns to look down at you, mouth twisting. ‘She is brilliant. Far more brilliant than I was at her age’.

‘Well,’ you muse seriously. ‘She  _definitely_ got that from me’.

Michael throws you a deadpan look before pressing a sound kiss to your mouth, and murmurs, ‘That, I can’t deny’.


End file.
